Clutching At These Fabled Treasures
by ShouldiWonder
Summary: She had used him as a lovely distraction, in the beginning.  She saw their superficial similarities and had laid claim to something she didn't understand.  This wasn't meant to happen.


**Clutching At These Fabled Treasures  
>(Rotten Leaves and Broken Bones)<br>(Summary: **_She had used him as a lovely distraction, in the beginning. She saw their superficial similarities and had laid claim to something she didn't understand. This wasn't meant to happen._)  
><em>American Horror Story. VioletTate._

Losing her mind isn't something that happened in one fatal swoop. The things that made her infinitely _her _didn't rearrange inside of her brain until her insides were as unrecognizable as her outsides had become in an instant. Instead it happens in moments, in the tiny spaces that people would skip over if they found it in them to retell her story. The moment she looked at Tate, days after that monumental discovery someone _would _mention, with the sunlight weaving through his hair and reconciled him and _death _together for the first time was one of them. She had taken the pills before that, when the information had settled inside of her like a cancer that could swallow her whole, and she hadn't seen her own skin rotting yet. She had thought that was something like a beginning for them, something that would get them out of the standstill they were residing in.

This makes it worse, in the end. Death is something manageable because, when it comes down to it, death is _tangible_. It is there in the moments where someone feels at their most alive and it reeks in the air when someone finds themselves losing their fire. She could still feel him underneath her hands and that had been all she needed. She couldn't reconcile him with _rapist_, though. He had tried to save her when she died and had been held by her right after that, crying for her more than himself. He had kissed her sweetly and showed her his scars with something like pride etched over his expressions. She had thought of him in possessives, in _mine_s and _our_s. She had never had anything like that before and now she remembered why. People were fuckups and disappointments and she shouldn't have gotten used to him in the first place. It was a mistake, a miscalculation in her lifelong plan to simply _disappear _into the folds of herself when no one was looking. It would be fine.

* * *

><p>Only it isn't that easy. If it were there would be no great tragedies or heartbreaking anecdotes from new friends. Moving on from someone you love isn't as simple as deciding <em>right, that's enough of that then <em>and walking away from it like it never happened. _Go away _wasn't be and end all. It would always be the two of them and this old house. He would cry whenever he saw her, pitiful sounds coming from the back of his throat, and she couldn't stand his _please, please _any more than her body could stand those sleeping pills. _Go away _was an escape plan, an option B after her grand suicide failed her. It wasn't forever, though, and she knew that soon the words wouldn't be able to form themselves. That her strength would fade in his presence and she would go back to the way she was before. Eyes blissfully closed, fingers in her ears, and screaming any sound she could make to keep herself ignorant of all that he's done.

* * *

><p>There's meant to be poetry in here, somewhere. Of that she's sure. A suicidal girl who cried that she didn't want to die, a murderous boy who pleaded that he hadn't wanted to hurt anyone, and a house of despondent ghosts. She used to find poetry in everything. In the clean metal of a razorblade into the white of her wrists. In the stained tile floors with all that red across its surface. In the way Tate would smirk at her, the slow curl of his smile against the sharpness of his teeth. It all came back to Tate, in the end, and maybe <em>that <em>was the poetry in and of itself.

* * *

><p>She forgives him became she doesn't have the strength to do otherwise. He had been on his knees, hugging her waist and his face had been pressed against her stomach, trying to bury himself inside her skin. She had felt his tears through the fabric of her dress and the warmth of them shouldn't have registered with the image of the cruel, heartless bastard she had been trying to force upon him inside her own mind. They had and she just… <em>couldn't<em>. She never said the words because she thinks, even now, they wouldn't taste quite right on her tongue. _I forgive you_. He hadn't asked for the words then and he doesn't now. It's the closest thing they get to a standstill, a collective breath of relief as they stand on common ground. He doesn't ask because he knows she won't give and she doesn't look too closely, afraid of what she might find. They're comfortable in their cycle and all is how it was never meant to be.

* * *

><p>She loses her mind when she brings Tate up to eye level and kisses him. She feels as though she's drowning, the wetness of his tears against her skin overwhelming. Her eyes are closed, slammed shut, but she knows his eyes lingered open before sliding closed. One of his hands had found their way to the back of her hair, clutching at the strands, and the other onto the small of her back. As if he was trying to catch her from some unexpected fall. Her hands remained framing his face, her hold on him delicate. Not afraid of breaking him or <em>them<em>, just unsure.


End file.
